Better Armed
by industrialists
Summary: The thing about Dragonstomper .48s is simply this- you don't want one. If you happen across a Dragonstomper and you're not a rapacious industrialist, expect to be thrown into an early grave by someone who is. My name is Ben Finn, and my luck is terrible.


**Better Armed**

Being the roguish, adventure-bent and disarmingly handsome sort of bloke that I am, it stands to reason that sometimes I find things. Sometimes I steal things, too, but those are stories for another day.  
>I find ridiculous items in chests nobody has had any occasion to open for centuries, I find loose change in mine shafts, and, once, I found a pistol in a collapsed cave in Mistpeak Valley, doing its very best to look uninteresting.<p>

It was a pretty thing, all gears and flamboyance, and of course I decided that it should be mine forever. A good thirty minutes were spent disentangling it from roots and rocks and bits of bone (the latter I was trying very hard not to think about) until it was free and sitting in its expectant new owner's hands.  
>I shook a bit of the <em>old<em> owner's hands off the barrel and held it up to the light.  
><em>Look at that brass.<em>  
>I clutched it to my chest in a display I was rather glad nobody else was around to witness. Treasure-hunting is, on the whole, not pleasant. Really. It sounds like adventure and gold and jewels and going blade-to-blade with mysterious but fantastically attractive ladies, but in reality you're just an idiot slogging through waist-high mud alone hoping not to get a water-borne infection before you find a slightly shiny bit of rock that you can get a few bob for down at the market. But when treasure-hunting pays off, it pays <em>gloriously.<em>

I was jumping to mad, oxygen-starved conclusions, there, of course. Ben Finn is nothing if not thorough and practical, so when I calmed down and stopped twirling the gun around and accidentally bonking myself in the face with it, I drew up some plans.  
>First, I'd have to see what it was worth.<p>

-  
>I stumbled into an unusually packed Bowerstone pawnbrokers early the next morning, making no attempt whatsoever to hide my loot, and presented it proudly to a dumpy-looking bloke with about five pairs of glasses on. He blinked at me for a few moments and then got to work, fingering a few of the pistol's bolts in a way I wasn't quite sure I was comfortable with. After a brief look, he set it back on the counter and I'm positive he took a sharp half-step backwards.<p>

"Where'd you get this?"  
>I shrugged, arms folded. "I found it."<p>

"Ah," he said, with the sort of tone that you might employ when delivering the news that your horse has just stood on someone's puppy. This was the point at which I started to become a bit suspicious, and I waved for him to continue.

"That's a Dragonstomper," he said frankly.  
>"What?"<br>"That's a Dragonstomper .48."  
>"What?"<br>"That's a-"  
>"No, I heard you." As had everyone else, apparently. Glancing over my shoulder I almost headbutted a few nosey patrons who had sidled up to the counter and were making an abysmal show of looking indifferent.<p>

Lowering my voice to a whisper (not that it would make much difference at this point), I leaned in close. "Are you sure?"  
>"Yes," he replied, sounding a bit offended that I'd even consider questioning him.<br>I studied his face for a moment. Well, I say studied but it was more me looking at him and waiting for him to say 'Surprise! Just kidding. Had you going there, didn't I?' A little tug of panic had settled itself in my chest as I took in an altogether unexpected development, because you know what they say about Dragonstompers, don't you?

It's something along the lines of, _'good gods just hope you don't come across one because a certain someone will shoot you in the face'.__  
><em>  
><em>'A certain someone' <em>had made no secret of his fascination with these particular firearms. They were very much his style- ostentatious to the point of obscenity, deadly, and _extremely _limited edition.  
>It was common knowledge that those foolish enough to fabricate tales of possessing such a pistol, or even merely suggesting that they knew where one might be hidden had an uncomfortable habit of disappearing. The newly-crowned monarch had briefly entertained searching for one- or so they'd told me whilst trying not to throw up on my shoulder during a particularly eventful night of drinking- but people with any degree of common sense and sobriety generally knew to steer clear.<br>And here I was, having stumbled arse-backwards into a Dragonstomper .48. Fantastic.

I picked it up gingerly, very aware of the people behind me and- _had he always been so close? Shit, I'm sure there were a few more people here a minute ago-_ nodded a curt 'thank you' to the bloke who had made my life a lot more difficult. Then I did the thing I do best.  
>I bolted.<p>

_Drop it. Just drop it._  
>Right. Yes. This was the sensible thing to do, surely? Just drop the bloody thing and forget about it and live a life of blissful ignorance. Perhaps draw a map in ten years and sell it to some plucky adventurers for a few bits.<br>It was an unexpectedly fine day, but I wasn't concerned with that so much as cutting a path for myself through the throng of early-morning shoppers. The pistol- the _Dragonstomper_, might as well start recognising the catalyst to my own demise- was slung over my shoulder as I navigated the Market, my fingers wrapped tightly around the strap. With some difficulty and not nearly as much speed as I'd have liked, I managed to weave past the growing crowd who had gathered to see a pig dressed in a skirt and escaped into the back streets.  
>Rocketing around a corner, I reached for an appropriate digging tool. Unfortunately the only thing I could fumble out of my pocket was a spoon. Needs must, though, and so I found a bit of grass behind a ramshackle old cottage and began assaulting it. I was quick to discover why people tend to use shovels instead of spoons when digging- I wasn't so much creating a hole than flicking bits of mud and grass into my face. Panic <em>does things<em> to me.  
>My steady stream of expletives aimed at the offending pistol came to an abrupt halt when I heard footsteps and realised that someone was probably watching me make a tit of myself.<p>

"I've been looking for you everywhere!"

I stood up quickly, legs astride my horticultural masterpiece and spoon raised threateningly. As it happened, I was not about to be dragged off somewhere terrible by a couple of mercenaries working out of my least favourite industrialist's pocket, because it was my mate Tick, who probably should've been busy guarding the extremely under-financed 'undesirables'' keep.  
>I concentrated really hard and could almost hear the cries of rejoicing criminals who had managed to get out of their cells by wishing really hard and blowing on the lock.<p>

"What? Why?"

"You're the talk of the town, Finn!" He folded his arms and tried to supply this detail in a suave, knowledgeable way but Tick is a generally awkward creature and he'd obviously just been running so his delivery was a bit breathy. But that didn't really matter because I'd dropped my spoon and my stomach was firmly disagreeing with his words.  
>"Bollocks. No<em>. Why?<em>"

At this point I was hoping for the delectable misadventure that is _misinformation _to come to my aid. Bowerstone, and Albion by extension because we're a population of insufferable bastards, really enjoys an ample, life-destroying rumour. It's actually a bit uncomfortable if you think about it, but we do love a good natter, especially if the content is a really dirty bit of gossip about that one woman who looked at you a bit funny last Tuesday and _oooh is it any wonder what with her running a brothel under her poor husband's nose? _Of course, such rumours are hardly ever true- people lie when it suits them and others are just thick enough to mishear 'she's just founded a charity' as 'she's just run a travelling bard through seven times with a cutlass'. Perhaps someone had simply decided to extol my virtues to the town! I wouldn't blame them.

But then Tick said, "You've got a Dragonstomper, haven't you?" and I knew I was shit out of luck._  
><em>I'd just picked my spoon up but I threw it on the floor.  
>That's what sort of day it was.<p> 


End file.
